meet me where the falling stars live
i will wait for you
Amalia recoils a little at the ferocity in Wessex's tone, the momentary light of familial shadowed a moment by the return of darkness in the woman's eyes. Dropping her head, the baker sighs, withdrawing further into herself, bloodshot eyes dropping back to the roses that sit beside the shrine. "Okay." She does not have the energy to argue, and besides, Wessex is a queen now. Decisions like this, responsibilities, the weight of the world- they belong to the Ascended, not the Shield.
She is just a child, after all. A mortal, ignorant, insignificant, small. Safrin's words are a noose around her neck, one that tightens despite the respite offered by the rose (a rose which is now nothing but dust). Amalia has never been more fragile than she is in this moment, sitting between two women she loves and admired, and endlessly, effortlessly, failing them both.
The Wraith's voice draws her eyes back up, distant again as they meet her gaze, meet the dangerous question that Amalia has not been willing to answer, even in her own heart. If it is the will of Mort that Ascended should die, then who is the baker to stand in the way? And if she does let it happen, if she does not raise her voice to stop it, is she any better than whoever it is that it chosen to wield the blade?
"I don't know." the girl replies softly, dropping her head again, unable to meet Wessex's gaze. She does not say the thing she wants to - then I will have to find another way - because who is she to claim she can manage this, to even pronounce an intention of asking Mort for guidance? She has been defeated tonight, her good intentions cast aside, and oh, but she is tired. "But I... I will never stop looking for another way. And I will never be part of that. Of... of killing. You have to know that, Wessex."
She is just a child, after all. A mortal, ignorant, insignificant, small. Safrin's words are a noose around her neck, one that tightens despite the respite offered by the rose (a rose which is now nothing but dust). Amalia has never been more fragile than she is in this moment, sitting between two women she loves and admired, and endlessly, effortlessly, failing them both.
The Wraith's voice draws her eyes back up, distant again as they meet her gaze, meet the dangerous question that Amalia has not been willing to answer, even in her own heart. If it is the will of Mort that Ascended should die, then who is the baker to stand in the way? And if she does let it happen, if she does not raise her voice to stop it, is she any better than whoever it is that it chosen to wield the blade?
"I don't know." the girl replies softly, dropping her head again, unable to meet Wessex's gaze. She does not say the thing she wants to - then I will have to find another way - because who is she to claim she can manage this, to even pronounce an intention of asking Mort for guidance? She has been defeated tonight, her good intentions cast aside, and oh, but she is tired. "But I... I will never stop looking for another way. And I will never be part of that. Of... of killing. You have to know that, Wessex."
day and night
AMALIA
